I Lost Myself to the Moonlight Glow
by blackhemlock
Summary: Werewolves are vicious and insane.  They care about nothing but the kill and the Moon.  Their bite can twist you up and turn you into something monstrous.  Unless you are a vampire... and then it's deadly.
1. A Wolf Calls to the Night

**Title:** i lost myself to the moonlight glow  
**Pairing:** Edward/Jacob (main), Edward/Bella (beginning), some Bella/Jacob & all other canon pairings

**Warnings: ** this will be slash people so if that does not float your boat don't read this.  
**Summary:** Werewolves are vicious and insane. They care about nothing but the kill and the Moon. They are also lethal to vampires.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, nada, neinte. It all belongs to Stephanie Meyer and whoever publishes the books where you are.  
**Author's Notes:** I am trying to do something different here so concrit is gratefully accepted. To anyone who reads my Torchwood fanfic - I haven't given them up nor have I abandonned my HP fic... I just had this bunny and needed to write it. I will be taking some liberties with the Quileute traditions. I do not own them and I do respect that they are a people with their own history but this is a work of fiction. Also, I am not a huge Bella fan but I am endeavoring not to bash her. I predict it will be a struggle. Additionally (because saying 'Also' again seems annoying), this is a WIP so there may be gaps between postings. I know what I am going to write, its just getting the time to write them.

I can't think of anything else right now but will add it when I do.

Enjoy x

* * *

She is everything.

It is a very simple concept. She is _everything_.

There is nothing beyond her pale face, her radiant presence. The dark of the forest holds no wonder, the whispering of the wind no secrets, the call of nature no lure; it was just him and her. Even the slick soft feel of fresh meat between his teeth and the metallic tang of blood fail to stir the same hunger she does in him. Without her... without her everything is dark and cold and his mind shies away from even contemplating such a place; such a horrible, twisted place where nothing could possibly wish to live. She is his world, his everything. He cannot explain it better than that. He knows no more than that. She is his heart beat, his breath, his blood. Every atom of his body is hers. Every thought in his head is tuned to her. Every accomplishment attributed to her. She is that spark deep down inside that makes him more than just soft flesh and brittle bone.

She is his soul.

She sings to him, a lullaby for his ears alone, assuring him of his importance in her life; crooning her love to him. Every night he hears her song, infinitely sweet and so alluring. A siren call meant just for him, and he would gladly dash himself on the sharpest of rocks if she were just to bestow upon him the faintest chord. Sometimes, like tonight, it's loud, striving towards its crescendo, but other nights, then it is as soft as a baby's breath and he has to strain to hear it. And strain he does; escaping to the forests or the beaches so that there is nothing between them. No man-made sounds, no honking horns or buzzing electric lights; they spoil it. They pollute her sonata, drowning out the sweet notes. Tonight she's ringing in his ears, a maddeningly beautiful sound like the singing of cut glass, drumming out any thought, pulsing through him, and he feels her in every cell. He is hers, just as she is his. They covet each other. They need each other. Their very existence is based upon the other. Two halves of one whole. They complete each other. She needs his devotion, his wonder, his slavish adoration and he needs her. Just her.

Nothing else.

He feels her now, even though she is miles away, she flows through his blood, thundering like a heartbeat. Her soft fingers stroke his skin, spurring him to run further and faster, chasing her elusive scent. Following her siren song. So he plunges deeper into the dark forest. Night-time creatures snuffle in the undergrowth, rustling leaves and deliberately keeping out of his way. Bats pinwheel through the sky, their acrobatics a show for someone else, he has neither the time nor the inclination to watch. His eyes are needed elsewhere. He can taste the pine sap in the air and somewhere overhead an owl screeches out to its mate. He knows how it feels: sending its call out into the dark, desperately hoping his Lady will sing back. He plants his feet in the soft wet earth, throws back his head and lets out his own mournful cry.

The sound reverberates around the thick forest, bouncing from tree to tree and leaving a wake of utter silence in its path. Not even the crickets strum. The wind moves through the trees, the smell of fresh rain teases him, trying to soothe his restless spirit with its sweetness but the rain is nothing compared to the Moon. He watches, obsessively, as she makes her way through the night sky.

A twig snaps, the crack echoing through the dark. His head whips round, his silver eyes trained on the path, and he freezes, waiting for the unwary. She won't mind if he turns from her for a moment, not if he brings her the sweetest offering; a sacrifice worthy of her ethereal majesty.

The boy is beautiful, even to his moonstruck eyes and his stomach rolls, hunger welling up like a tidal wave. The boy is perfect. He looks fresh, young, soft muscle and deliciously pliable flesh. His teeth will cut through that skin so easily. One bite. That is all he needs. One crushing ripping bite and the boy will be his. His moonlight offering. Crouching low, he waits, covered by the thick bushes and ferns, watching. Still.

The boy trips through the forest as if it is daylight and the sun is shining bright and there are no monsters lurking in the dark. His movements are easy, graceful as a gazelle and as surefooted as a mountain goat. He's travelled these paths before, he knows them – it is obvious. His feet carry him forward and over the forest debris and he flits, like Will-o'-the-Wisp, through a patch of moonlight.

It is too much. The boy's skin _glows_, twinkles like a thousand-faceted diamond, as the light caresses it, stroking it in a way it never strokes him. She has never blessed him in such a way. The anger blooms bright, blinding him to anything but sheer irrepressible rage. He has no right. No one should glow in the moonlight. No one should steal the light that is meant for him alone. The light is his. He _worships_ her, follows her – no matter where she goes – he knows her name, every one of them, in every language spoken by man and beast. And now there is this boy, this insignificant little child, trying to steal her radiance from him.

He is nothing without her. He is less than nothing. Without her he is hollow waste of flesh and blood. Without her there is no soul, no spirit, no sweet life.

He trembles, his muscles clenching and relaxing as his rage rocks through him. Blood pounds in his temple, the pressure so great he can barely see. He grits his teeth, hard enough to snap steel and his jaw aches with the effort. He wants to rip, tear, _eviscerate_ this interloper. He wants to obliterate that sparkling flesh, remove it millimetre by millimetre so that nothing is left but rich red ribbons of masticated flesh and the flash of white, crushed bone. He wants to erase the boy from the world, his fur ripples with the want. It's in his belly, like swallowed fire, this unshakeable need to destroy. To hurt, to make the boy watch as he rips his stomach out and leaves him as empty as he feels right now. The boy has stolen his light – so he will steal his. Snuff out the little light of his inconsequential life and retire to lick his wounds.

Maybe he will end it. Destroy the boy and then himself. She has forsaken him. What does he have if not her? If he has lost that moonlight glow what is his existence worth? He can see nothing but black emptiness stretching out its grasping fingers and ensnaring him in a madness he will never escape. A loneliness that will inevitably damn him.

The boy is so close, and he slinks forward, his belly scraping the soft damp earth. He makes not a sound and even though the night is as silent as a tomb, the boy has no idea he is there. No idea that he is moving towards his end.

She coos to him and the rage subsides. She wants the boy. She wants the boy to glow for her, to twinkle like her very own star and he will give her what she wants. He's her servant, her _slave_, devoted only to her. If she wished it of him he would die, in an instant. End his miserable existence however she wished. But all she wishes for is the boy; this moonlit child running towards him and it will be so easy.

He bursts from the bushes, his fur quicksilver in the moonlight and it doesn't matter how fast the boy is, he is infinitely faster. The slight body buckles underneath his crushing weight, his claws raking at the soft material of the boy's shirt. The rending of fabric though isn't enough, he needs something harsher and deeper, and though the boy struggles he keeps him pinned with sharp claws and sheer force and unforgiving teeth tearing into the pale neck.

He does not taste blood. His razor-teeth do not slide through, as they should, as nature intended. The boy is hard, like marble and his canines ring with the effort of the bite. It's a bite that would crush a man's head like a sun ripened peach, but the skin hardly breaks, only the tips of his fangs manage to penetrate and the taste that stains his tongue is acid and not sweet metal. It's wrong, so unbelievably wrong, and his stomach twists violently, wrenching him back, letting the boy fall limply from his grasp. He hacks, spits – as well as he is able – trying to get the sour burning taste out of his mouth. He drags his tongue along the dirt, and the boy screams.

The sound rings in his ears and he whines, shaking his head in a frantic effort to dispel the noise. He is so loud. Glancing at the boy he can see that his golden eyes are wide open, his hands are clutching at his neck and his body is twitching, like he is a marionette with his strings being pulled in every direction. The boy is _still _screaming and he snarls. He stalks closer, determined to shut the boy up, stop that horrible noise but the nearer he gets the more it hurts and he backs away, whining and whimpering and tossing his head from side to side.

He hears voices, dim over the screaming, and he backs further into the bushes, his fur sliding seamlessly into the shadows. For that is all he is, moonlight and shadow made flesh. His silver eyes watch as two others arrive, almost as beautiful – although in vastly different ways – as his boy and they too shimmer in the light. He snarls, low and furious and the bigger of the two obviously hears him, stiffening slightly like a deer scenting a cougar, and turns to look. He remains undetected, hidden by the night, but the large one stares for endless seconds, searching him out until the screaming boy and the blond tugging on his sleeve draws his attention away. Stooping slightly, the larger one gathers up the still screaming, writhing boy, his hands infinitely careful, and the other one hovers nervously, like a mother supervising her chicks. He narrows his eyes as his hunger ebbs even further and his limbs grow heavy. One of _them_ is doing something. Even his moonlight boy is relaxing. But before he can figure it further, they are running, disappearing back the way they came.

Taking the calm, and her prize, with them.

He hangs his head, shame welling up inside of him. He failed her. The boy would have been a beautiful present to lie on her altar as a sign of his devotion. She rebukes him softly; acknowledging that she would have liked the boy. That he would have been a beautiful jewel in her collection. He cannot help but feel guilty; it bites at him like a raw wind. She asks so little of him and he needs to show her, has to show her, just how much he loves her. She wants the boy, the boy who glows in a way he never can. A boy that will replace him in her affections, after all he reflects her. He _shines_ for her. And that does not matter, not really. She wants the boy and he loves her. She will have the boy because he loves her. And because he loves her he will bring her nothing less than her greatest desire.

A wolf howls in the dark.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"'lo?" Jacob Black's voice is husky with sleep and he scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes.

His bedside clock, a wind-up thing that had been in his room for as long as he could remember, had its hands at three and two and though it was five-past-three and not quarter-past-two it was still far too early to be answering the phone. But, it is the unspoken rule of unexpected middle of the night call: when the phone rings it has to be answered. Because someone has probably died. Or been horribly maimed. Or, at the very least, has gotten terribly drunk and been hauled in by an annoyed Chief Swan and he wants Jacob to come and pick them up when all Jacob wants to do his burrow his way back under his bedding and go back to sleep.

"Jake?" Bella's voice is shaking and suddenly sleep is the last thing from Jacob's mind.

"Bella? What's wrong? Is it Charlie?" The questions are fast and perhaps too harsh for someone who is obviously distressed but he cannot help it. No matter how hard he tries to stop he still loves her and hearing her so torn up crushes him and jars all of his protective instincts.

Bella swallows down a sob which Jacob hears quite clearly. "Jake," she moans, like a wounded animal.

"Bells," he says trying to sound calm and controlled, hoping that it will rub off on her. "Tell me what's wrong."

"It's Edward," she whispers, her voice tight with tears. He knows that she's probably tucked into the rocking chair in the corner of the room with a blanket wrapped around her. Her face will be bone-white and her eyes hollow and red-rimmed with tears. "He's been hurt."

"Fuck," he breathes and hears her tense on the phone. She's probably thinking he's happy or that he thinks she blames him – he isn't thinking that at all. Far from it. He's trying to work out what in the hell could take down a vampire, and one that reads minds at that.

"Alice rang – she said, she said, she-"

"Breath, Bella, just breathe."

He hears her take a huge gulp of air in, coughing as it goes down wrong, and he lets her get control of herself. "Alice said that Jasper and Emmett found him," she pauses and Jacob swears he hears her knuckles crack. "I could hear him screaming Jake, he sounded so... so..."

Jacob doesn't really know what to say. It's not like he can say he's sorry, although he is – for Bella at least – because it would come off as insincere. She knows, better than most, that there is no love lost between him and Cullen. Really he should be doing cartwheels and whooping, but he can't. The pain in her voice cuts him to the quick and, no matter how he wishes it wasn't so, he's her best friend. Still, he isn't sure why she is calling him.

He rubs the back of his neck, feeling suddenly awkward and exposed. He hopes that she will continue talking because, really, how does he ask her what the hell she wants from him without sounding like a callous bastard?

"I have to go, Jake," she says, her voice urgent.

"Oh, ok then." He wasn't really expecting that sudden swerve in conversation. "I'll talk to you tomorrow? Or whenever?"

"No Jake, I need to go to the house."

Jacob rubs his face again. It is really too early for this semi-hysterical conversation. "Ok."

"How long will you be?"

It suddenly occurs to him that they are having different conversations. "Woah. Wait – what?"

"I'm going to get dressed – how long will you be? You will be quick won't you?"

For a moment he wonders whether she needs some sort of help, like a doctor or something, because she thinks he's going to be the one to take her to Edward. It is really very twisted. "Isn't Alice coming to get you?" he asks, because he can't imagine them leaving Bella out of this.

He hears the rustle of clothing and the crack of jeans being shaken out. "She can't. Carlisle doesn't want any of them to leave the house." Her voice sounds a little farther away than it did before; she's obviously put it down to dress and Jacob shifts nervously. She's getting dressed whilst on the phone to him. Cullen would have a fit – and that makes him smile. It's a naughty little smile but Bella is still talking and he has to listen to what she is saying. "And Alice says that it isn't safe for me to come alone and if you take me, well, then I won't be alone will I?"

Jacob nods along with what she says, because she is Bella and he always agrees with her. The floorboard creaks behind him and he turns to see his dad. Billy has pulled himself out of bed and his chair is halfway into the hall. He has a curious look on his face. Covering the receiver with one hand he mouths "Bella" and his father raises an eyebrow. Its sheer mastery the way his dad can say an entire sentence with just one eyebrow.

He is not pleased.

"How long will you be?" Bella begs and Jacob hates her at that moment. She doesn't seem to care at the position she's putting him in. It hurts him, physically hurts him – like a punch in the gut – to hear just how much she loves Edward. Just how worried she is about him. And he has no doubts that if things were the other way round she would not be begging Edward to take her to him. She'd accept whatever excuse he gave her not to go.

He sighs, and feels sick to his stomach about what he is about to say. "I can't Bella. I can't go to their house."

Falling back on the treaty is perhaps a little pathetic, he knows that, but it's the only recourse he's left with. And one of them has to think clearly. The Cullens, no matter how peaceful they are, will not appreciate him turning up at a time like this. Bella does not seem to understand that though, "Jake! Please! I have to get to Edward – its _Edward_ and he's hurt and he needs me! Jacob, _please._"

Jacob is pretty sure that Charlie is not home, or at least if he is, he is no longer asleep. Even his father heard that. She's whispering a litany of "its Edward, I have to go" over and over, as if emphasising the fact that _it's Edward_ is going to make any difference to him at all. If anything it makes him want to dig his heels in out of sheer spite. But he's better than that. He hates that he is. Sometimes he wishes that he could be totally selfish, it would make life so much easier. But he can't, it's the curse of being a pack animal. He sighs and she hears it and he really wonders if his affections for her have blinded him to her selfish side. Because really, all she cares about right now is her getting to Edward. She doesn't care that the Cullens might not want her there or about asking Jacob to take her.

A flash of flesh catches his attention and he turns. His dad has obviously been attempting to flag his attention for sometime – if the exasperated expression on his face is any indication – and he motions for Jacob to hang up the phone. He frowns. He does not want to abandon Bella when she so obviously needs him but, at the same time, he has never gone out of his way to disobey his father. Never. Somehow the adolescent need to rebel seems to have bypassed him – in much the same way as it has bypassed the various pack-members. Perhaps it is instinctual, and dedication and service to the tribe is ingrained in them long before they shift. Or maybe it's simply that Billy has raised him and Billy has, for the best part of his life, been the only family around. He loves his sisters, but he loves his dad more.

"Bella, give me a minute yeah? I'll call you back."

"No, Jake, no. Don't hang up. Please don't hang up. I need you to help me." She is begging now, and that thorn in his heart that has Bella's name etched into it twists just that bit more.

"Ok, ok," he soothes, unable to do anything more. "I'm not hanging up, I swear I'm not, I just need to talk to my dad."

"And then you'll come get me?" There's something slightly mad and childlike in that question, and Jacob is profoundly grateful that he has decided not to hang up.

"I'll be right back."

Putting the phone down on the sideboard, making sure that he's gentle so as not to bang against the wood, he moves across to his father.

Despite the early hour, Billy's eyes are sharp and his hair is relatively neat. Jacob knows it's inevitable that the right hand side of his hair is plastered to his head, just like it is every morning, but somehow his dad has managed to escape the indignity. He's often wondered whether it is some Elder voodoo that keeps his father so unruffled, because nothing has ever surprised Billy. Not even his son turning into a massive wolf and attempting to eat him out of house and home. It is the same now. It is three in the morning and for all Billy reacts it might as well be three in the afternoon. His hands rest on his blue-striped pyjama bottoms, just like the ones you see in films, real pyjama bottoms and not the cut off sweat-pants Jacob shucks on before crawling into bed, and he is tapping out a random beat with his right index finger.

"What is going on Jake?"

Jacob drags both hands over his face and through his hair. He's tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He feels as though he is being pulled in all directions and none of them benefit him in anyway. "Cullen – Edward – has been hurt."

Billy does not look impressed, not that Jacob expected him to. "How?"

"Dunno. Bella's kinda losing it."

Billy grins wryly. "So I heard."

Jacob huffs. "She wants me to take her over there."

Even saying it out loud hurts and he wraps his arms round his middle, sometimes he feels like he needs to hold it all in. All he wants to do is scream. Or run. Run far and fast and never stop running until the hurt has burned away and the ash is free-floating in the wind. He especially wants to run from Bella and the web she has him in. He does not understand how she can ignore his feelings so easily. He gets it, she does not want him. Not the way he wants her. Not the way she wants Edward. He gets it, really he does. There are times when he thinks of nothing else. Nevertheless, he does not think he's done anything that warrants the constant reminders.

"Perhaps you should." Billy looks pensive.

Jacob looks incredulous. "What?" Somehow his father suggesting this hurts even more than Bella. Of all the people in the world, he thought that, at the very least, Billy would support him on this.

Reaching out and snagging his son's hand, Billy tugs until Jacob squats down in front of his chair. He's never been an overly affectionate man, but at the same time he's never been afraid of touch. He smoothes a hand over Jacob's bed-head hair, just like he used to when Jacob was a child, and Jacob relaxes just a little. "Think about it Jake. We need to know what took down the Cullen boy."

"So?"

Billy sighs. "So, it could be a threat. One that could hurt us." He stares at his son, and for a moment he looks old and weary. "Jake, I know it's hard, but the tribe comes first. If something attacked a vampire–"

"It could come after us," Jacob interrupts his father, not needing to hear the spiel about how their ancient sacred calling makes them little more than guard-dogs. There was a moment, a brief shining moment, shortly after he'd shifted for the first time – and after the momentary hysteria of realising that he had suddenly morphed into a massive wolf – where he'd been filled with sheer joy. That type that only comes from realising that something about you is special. It had welled in the pit of his stomach, like hot cocoa complete with marshmallows and whipped cream, and it had been like Christmas Eve, when you are five and tucked in bed and absolutely anything is possible. It had been wonderful. It was as though he'd finally found who he was meant to be and he'd liked it. He was more than just Jacob Black, the Res kid with the crippled dad and crappy Rabbit. He was Jacob Black. Wolf. All those insignificant teenage insecurities had fallen from him as though he'd shed his old skin and taken on a new one. He'd finally felt free, like he had a place and a purpose and he was more than just an awkward sixteen year old with a crush on his best friend. And then Sam explained what their purpose was.

The weight of the responsibility had forced the air from his lungs and suddenly his shiny new gift hadn't seemed all that cool anymore.

Two years later the weight is still there, still as heavy and he imagines that it will be there until the day he dies.

He shakes his head wearily. He is so tired of all of this. He'd like to be a normal kid again. He should be looking at colleges now, not trying to work out what – if anything – had attacked a vampire. There are times when his life is surreal. He claps his dad on the knees and rises from his crouch, his knee-caps popping as he stands, and heads back to the phone. He tries not too but his shoulders slump in defeat as he picks up the receiver. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he's never quite overcome, "Bells? You there?"

"Jake?" She's been crying since he put the phone down, her voice is raspy and wet and she sounds a little lost.

"I'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Ok. Ok. Great. I'll meet you outside."

Jacob agrees, before processing just what she has said. "No, Bells. Stay inside, ok? If the Cullens don't want you alone then you stay inside 'til I get there. Right?"

"Ok – just hurry. Please Jake. Hurry."

The dial tone is so very final and he carefully places the receiver back on its cradle. For a moment he just stands, his hand resting on the phone, his head tilting back towards the ceiling. There's a crack in it. He'll have to sort that soon, he really can't afford to have the house fall down around them.

"Jake?"

"I'm gone."

His steps are leaden as he moves towards his room. He needs to dress – jeans and a t-shirt at least – if he's taking the bike. It's faster than the Rabbit but doesn't suit wearing shorts. It also means he'll need his boots or sneakers. Either work. It's a pain really, he's gotten used to not wearing shoes, running barefoot everywhere because he can't really tie shoes to his leg when he shifts. Quil tried once, with flip-flops. He'd managed to tie them to his leg, but by the end of the run he only had one left and it was virtually torn in half. After that they'd all given up on shoes. Jacob knows that he won't need a jacket, he is warm enough without one, but it looked better if he was wearing one should anyone see him. There are already enough odd things in Forks without him adding to them.

"Jake?" his father calls to him, once again, his voice soft. Jacob pauses in his door-way and half turns. He's hidden by the shadows of his room, the tips of his toes lit by the hall lighting. He wonders whether it says something about him. Something deep and psychologically revealing; he'd even go for poetic. Truth is though, he imagines it says very little, it just reminds him of what he is and what he isn't. "Tell the Cullens, if they need anything, they can call us."

He wasn't expecting his father to say that, not with their history, but he nods. Just once. Message received. They might be wolves but they're human too, sometimes they have to show it to others to remind themselves.

He dresses quickly, the beauty of owning mainly black t-shirts and jeans is that they always match and he can – quite literally – get dressed in the dark. The only thing he's forced to search for is his other boot, which he finds under his bed. His dad is still sitting in the dimly-lit hallway, his face creased with worry lines that make him seem, to Jacob's eyes, very vulnerable. His dark skin is puckered and raised, goose-bumps scattered over the flesh and Jacob cups a cold shoulder with his hot palm. "Go to bed, Dad," he insists softly, pressing a kiss into his father's raven-black hair. "It'll be fine. Always is."

"Be safe, Jake."

Jacob squeezes his father's shoulder just because he can. Because he suspects that somehow, after tonight, nothing will be the same, and presses another kiss to that weathered brow. "Always am old man."

The door creaks shut behind him as he leaves their ramshackle little house and he's part way down the gravel path before the hall light switches off.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Bella clings to him like a limpet the entire ride to the Cullen's house. He can feel her shaking against his back and every now and then he hears a muffled sob. Her fingers are digging into his t-shirt, her blunt nails scratching at the flesh of his waist. She's wearing his leather jacket and rather than a testament of how important she is to him, it merely signifies just how messed up she is. She'd been stood on her front porch in just her jeans and a shirt when he'd pulled up at her house. Her arms were frozen and her face, normally pale, was tinged blue and Jacob couldn't help but worry how long she'd been stood outside waiting. He had a horrible feeling that she'd been there since he hung up the phone.

She'd warmed up quickly though, once she was on the bike with her arms round his waist. It seemed as though his only real use where Bella was concerned was personal heater – and soon she would not even need him for that. Soon, soon no matter how hot he was, he'd never really be able to heat her cold dead flesh.

The Cullen house is, to Jacob's eyes, quite the perversion and that has nothing to do with its nightmarish occupants trying to play human. He just thinks that a building like that – all shining glass and sharp angles – really has no place in the forest. It is not organic. It's probably won awards and was inevitably designed by some famous architect whose drawings cost more money than Jacob will ever know, but it is still a monstrosity. It mars the beauty of the pines that fold in on it, trying to blot it from prying eyes as if they too were ashamed of it. It was so artificial, so _human_, despite all the wood cladding and the headlight of his bike reflects dizzyingly in all the glass. He hates it. If he lived this deep in the forest, all he'd need would be a little log cabin with a bed and a tiny kitchen and he'd be happy. He wouldn't need a satellite dish or balconies with loungers. All he'd need would be what nature gave freely. Air, wood, earth and water. He'd provide the heat.

Bella's off the bike before he's even killed the engine or put the kick-stand down and she slides on the gravel, tripping over her feet as she runs to the door. Jacob intends to follow her at a more sedate pace but as he watches her fumble the steps he speeds up, catching her before she takes a nose-dive into the decking. Setting her on her feet again he follows closely as she approaches the door.

All he can smell is _leech._ It is pungent, burning at his olfactory senses like he's just dipped his nose in a vat of acid. The air smells putrid. It had been Jared who'd described it the best – they, vampires, leeches, bloodsuckers, they smelled of death. Not quite the thick stench of a decaying corpse but of fresh death, the death of mere hours rather than days, when the blood has just settled and the limbs have just started to seize and the body is now cool to touch. And blood. Thick cloying blood. It makes him dizzy and he can feel his hackles rise. He doesn't like it. He doesn't want to be _here_. But Bella has his hand in a death grip, her knuckles are white and clearly visible in the moonlight, and his dad would be so disappointed if he ran.

So he stays. He walks with Bella to the door and consciously breathes through his mouth and tries not to jump when the tiny vampire with the pixie like features jerks the door open.


	2. The House of the Silent Dead

"Bella, I told you not to come," Alice scolds, snatching the hand not holding onto Jacob and whirling them inside the house and through to the lounge.

All of the Cullens – bar the doctor and Edward – are present and Jacob has to force down the need to shift. Being alone in a room full of vampires is perhaps the most terrifying thing ever to have happened to him. He is horribly outnumbered and his boots and jeans are strong enough to hinder his phasing by a few seconds. Which is all a vampire needs. They can massacre an entire village in minutes, Jacob knows this, he grew up hearing stories about it. The damage they could deal him in seconds would be enough to ensure that he never got up again. It was all that Newborn had needed. Jacob shudders, remembering the awful sensation of his bones snapping and that sound, like dried twigs crushed underfoot, is one that still haunts his dreams.

"I had to come. It's Edward," Bella is telling them, her voice completely earnest. She hasn't let go of Jacob's hand yet and he shuffles uncomfortably.

"It was dangerous," Alice chastises once more, pulling Bella – and Jacob – towards a sofa.

He doesn't sit and Bella doesn't let go of his hand, so he stands awkwardly. Alice has curled herself up at one end of the sofa, her hand reaching out to her mate who perches on the arm behind her. To Jacob's eye he looks as uncomfortable as Jacob feels. He just isn't sure whether it's because of Jacob's presence or just his reaction to the situation. Either way Jacob tries not to care and Jasper seems more intent on tracing his fingers over Alice's knuckles than acknowledging what is going on around them all. Of all the vampires, Jacob thinks that he pities Jasper the most. He has experienced other people's emotions, the pack shares _everything_ when phased and it's intrusive. When Sam explained imprinting to them all, it was as if, for those moments Sam was recalling it, Jacob himself was in love with Emily. She had seemed so perfect, so beautiful and he'd known the vertigo Sam had experienced upon meeting her, his vision and thoughts funnelling, until all he had known was Emily Young. Jacob had not been the only one to experience the rush of emotion and the pack had very nearly ripped itself apart, all of them, for that one moment, in love with the same girl. It had been after that that the pack had unanimously agreed that sharing imprint memories was never happening again. So he pities Jasper, especially now.

All their faces are drawn, tight and white, making each vampire look like the corpse they are. Jacob knows they cannot cry, Bella let it slip once – she let a lot slip about her vampire family though very little of it had been helpful in hunting them down – and Jacob cannot imagine how it must feel to be unable to express your emotions. He'd been brought up knowing that it was ok to cry, not that he did, and that it was wonderful to laugh. Emotions had always been at the tips of his fingers so their blank, tight faces are repulsive to him. If he had not of met them before, he would not have even realised that something was wrong. It seems horrifically wrong.

The house is silent. Jacob is sure that Bella had said Edward had been screaming but he must have been wrong because the house is so very silent. It's as quiet as the grave, Jacob thinks, and then tries not to laugh at his own puerile joke. This really wasn't the place. Quil would have found it funny, but then his sense of humour has always been slightly warped. He shifts slightly, spreading his weight evenly across his feet, and the denim of his jeans rustle, the only sound in the silent house.

All eyes turn on him, and none of them seem particularly friendly.

"What is he doing here?" Somehow, Rosalie manages to make what should have been a benign question the worst kind of accusation. Jacob feels somewhat sub-human, which he finds ironic given the fact that she is dead.

To Jacob's mind she is a princess, spoiled, snobby and superior. She's worse than Leah, and Leah has her moments. Perhaps it's because they are both wolves and have lost a parent, or maybe it is because they both love someone who cannot – and in Jacob's case will not – love them back; Jacob does not really know what it is, but somehow Leah does not get to him as much as Rosalie does. She gets deep down inside of him and gnaws at his marrows. He hates it. Jacob thinks that if Disney made princesses like Rosalie, little girls would not want to be princesses when they grew up.

They might want to kill them though.

"Even you aren't that blonde," he responds, the insult slipping from his lips before he can really think about it. He came here to drop Bella off and offer support – even if it was only a token gesture. Not to bicker with resident harpy. He ducks his head, an apology forming on his lips but she is fast and is in his face in a second.

One perfectly manicured eyebrow is arched and her perfectly painted lips are pulled back into a snarl. "Better to be blonde than a flea infested mongrel," she murmurs. Her words are soft but are not lacking in aggression. Jacob can feel the fine hairs on his arms rise and Rosalie's mate is hovering over her shoulder. It is completely unfair. There is no way he can attack her. For one thing, he is better than that. They are hurting, a member of their family is hurt and he has to cut them some slack. His dad had not raised him to kick people when they are down – even if they are parasitic corpses. For another, he is hopelessly outnumbered. He remembers seeing all of them fight and as much as it hurts him to admit it, they are good. Emmett had broken one Newborn in half, just torn him across his stomach as if he were no more than a sheet of paper. That image will be with Jacob until the day he dies... So really, he does not fancy taking Rosalie on, if only because he is behind her.

Also, she is a girl, albeit a dead girl, and Jacob Black does not hit girls. Even if they do deserve it.

He doesn't get chance to answer her though. There is a whisper of wind and Esme is abruptly between him and Rosalie. Her shoulders are tense and it's only due to his enhanced eye-sight that he can see the fine tremors wracking her form. "Rosalie. Enough."

There is a moment where the blonde is obviously considering answering her 'mother' back, an eternal teenage tantrum, but then her face crumples, like ice shifting and cracking, and she whirls away to the sofa by the huge window, as far away from Jacob as she can possibly be. Emmett is by her side in an instant, curling his huge form around her. Something about it is horribly intimate and Jacob turns away so that he doesn't have to watch, turning right into Esme.

"Ignore Rosalie, Jacob. Things are just..." she trails off, obviously unable to explain just how bad things really are.

"Sure, sure," Jacob nods, "'S not a problem."

Oddly enough he means it. Seeing Rosalie huddled on the sofa has quelled some of the enmity.

Esme, the eternal hostess, obviously taking in Bella's grip on his hand, gestures to the sofa space next to Bella, "Please, sit."

The sofa is white so he sits gingerly, ludicrously frightened of dirtying it. For some unfathomable reason, wealth made him uncomfortable. He is happiest when he is surrounded by oil and rusted metal. Shiny, expensive pieces make him feel thick and clumsy and the absent-minded display of wealth repulses him. His home is a little beaten up and nothing is new but it is more homely than this sterile space. It doesn't matter if he gets engine grease on the sofa or the fridge handle because everything at home is loved and worn and _his_. He doesn't need to prove himself there or live up to anything. He is Jacob Black and that is enough in La Push. Only, he is in Forks now and he has to be more than that. So he sits, almost primly, and keeps his free hand curled on his lap, just in case he smudges anything.

"It's my fault," Bella entreats, "Don't be mad at him, I made him bring me. I had to come."

She seems to be on some kind of loop, like the tape that had once gotten stuck in his dad's ancient stereo. It had played the same song over and over, until the track was cracked and they'd had to throw it out, still inside the stereo. But that was a cassette tape and Bella is a human and Jacob is quite sure that they are not meant to repeat themselves over and over. From the looks on the faces of the Cullens, they are of the same opinion. Alice's hand slides over, taking Bella's free hand and Bella shivers slightly.

"Bella, dear," Esme begins, looking at her family, a slightly martial look in her honey eyes, "No one minds that Jacob brought you. Everyone is just a little worried right now."

No one contradicts Esme and a silent truce falls between the vampires and the solitary shifter.

"Is he ok?" Bella suddenly asks, breaking the silence. Her eyes are feverish, and Jacob hasn't seen her anywhere near this unstable since Edward returned from Italy.

"We don't know," Alice answers, her face creased with worry. "Carlisle hasn't said anything yet."

"But no news is good news," Emmett interjects, "isn't that what they say?" His face is so hopeful, that it is almost more heartbreaking than Bella's frantic one.

"Yes it is, sweetheart," Esme nods decisively, a flicker of maternal pride ghosting across her face.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the 'family moment' he seems to be witnessing, Jacob chooses to join the family in falling back on platitudes and so says nothing, because he cannot think of anything kind to say. He has no comforting words to offer them, and even if he did, he is not sure that they would come out as sincere. So he sits silently on the pure white sofa, Bella holding his hand tightly, simply listening to the family talk.

Bella is not looking at him. It seems to have completely escaped her notice that she is holding on to him so tightly. He became superfluous the moment his bike hit the gravel of the Cullens' driveway. All her attention is fixed on Alice. "Can't you See anything?"

Alice looks distraught at the question. Not that Jacob cares really. They are still moving corpses, admitting that they have feelings is just a step too far for him. He will admit that her face crumples at Bella's words but that is as far as he will go.

"No – there's nothing there," Alice shakes her head. "There's nothing at all. It's just darkness. All I can see is black."

The more she speaks the more hysterical she sounds and Jacob becomes concerned that Bella is not the only unstable one in the room.

Bella's eyes widen fractionally and her grip on Jacob tightens. He isn't sure how she is doing it; she is a fragile little girl really, there is no way that she should be able to make him feel as though she is on the verge of breaking his bones. "Could Jacob be blocking you?"

It hurts that she doesn't look at him as she asks that question and he has the childish urge to make them all aware that he really does not want to be here. He'd much rather be at home in bed, curled under his blankets and dreaming about running through the forest. _She _is the one that dragged him out to this god-forsaken place, he didn't ask to come and he certainly did not ask to stay. He does not say that though. Instead he tries to be the man his dad brought him up to be and offers the only viable solution, "I'll leave..."

They don't hear him; they talk on, like angry magpies, as if he has already left.

"I only brought him because you told me not to come alone."

The words hurt Jacob more than he wants to admit. It is then and there that he decides that perhaps he needs to break away from Isabella Swan. All she manages to do is hurt him. Crush any self worth he manages to build and scatters it in the wake of her dream love with Edward. Sinking back into the sofa, no longer worried about marking it, he tries to become as invisible as she is making him feel, leaving the vampires to deal with her. They are soon to be her family anyway; they might as well start getting used to her fickle moods.

"I told you not to come, Bella," Alice replies and there is a hint of bite in her words. Jasper pulls her back, curling around her shoulders, pressing a kiss into her dark hair. She melts a little at his actions and Jacob feels a wave of calm lap at the edges of his mind.

The calm ripples over everyone but Bella. She is too hyped up for the subtle manipulation to have any effect, too focused on Edward to consider the feelings of others in the room. Jacob wonders why he has never seen her as selfish before. Perhaps now that he has been so categorically rejected the blinkers have fallen away. Or maybe he is just trying to protect himself by focusing on her faults. He does not know which is real, but he cannot seem to stop seeing the flaws in the once perfect Bella Swan.

Even her voice is annoying him, it's so tight with panic that it seems screechy to his sensitive ears. "I had to," she says, explaining herself once again, "Edward was screaming and you couldn't come to get me. Jacob could."

The vampires turn pitying eyes on Jacob and he focuses on the worn knee of his jeans. He had known when she called that she was just using him, but for her to admit it out loud... He shakes his head and tries to ignore the itching of tears burning at his eyes.

The air shifts slightly and out of the corner of his eye Jacob spots Carlisle moving into the room. Of all the vampires, Carlisle is the only one Jacob can tolerate. He does not like the man, but he most certainly owes him his mobility. If Carlisle had not come and reset his bones, Jacob knows he would currently be making his father look like the poster-boy for able-bodied people. He might not even be alive; the pain had been so great, even with the morphine, that it might very well have killed him. Carlisle saved him, and for that Jacob refuses to hate him on principle.

The doctor looks old and infinitely sad and Jacob knows that whatever he has to say is not good. All doctors have that same expression when it is bad news, their face is plastered with a blank expression but their eyes are just slightly crinkled at the edges and their mouths are pulled just so. The one who had told his dad about his diabetes had worn a very similar one and Jacob wonders whether it is something they are taught at medical school. It's hard to tell on Carlisle, his face is nothing more than a porcelain mask, but Jacob can see the echoes of it. Obviously the man has had years, perhaps centuries, to perfect not wearing the expression but he seems to be slipping tonight. For now though the doctor's attention is fixed on Bella, and he does not look happy.

Irrespective of what Jacob has been telling himself, his protective instincts rise up at that expression focused on Bella. If the vampire so much as moves towards her, Jacob knows without doubt, he'll defend her. And most probably die doing so.

Luckily for both of them though, Carlisle stops just inside the doorway. Jacob is not the only one who has noticed his entrance. Esme has straightened in her seat and Rosalie and Emmett have turned towards the door. Alice is still watching Bella but Jacob can tell that both she and Jasper are focused upon Carlisle.

"I am quite positive that I told Alice to tell you to stay at home."

It is not a question. There is something steely about Carlisle's voice that demands respect and Jacob can feel his Wolf stir at it. Carlisle is most definitely the Alpha of his little family and Bella's disobedience has displeased him. All of them, Jacob included, shrink away from that voice. Only Bella seems to be unaware of the underlying animosity and Jacob wonders whether it is an animal thing, because she is just so oblivious.

"How's Edward? Is he ok?" Bella asks, rising from her seat, finally releasing Jacob's hand, and moving towards Carlisle. "Can I see him? Is he awake? He's not screaming anymore so he's better right?"

Carlisle sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's such a human gesture that it looks false upon the vampire. "Bella, sit down."

Stubbornly, she says where she is, her hands curled into fists at her side. Carlisle narrows his eyes, obviously not in the mood to argue with her, so Jacob snakes a hand out and pulls her back onto the sofa. She bounces slightly as she lands and turns the most spectacular glare on him, but Jacob merely smiles in response. Carlisle moves further into the room, not so much walking as gliding. His movements are so elegant Jacob is, for the moment, mesmerised, although he will never admit it. Had the pack been there, he would not have even been caught looking, especially if Edward had been around. But, in the privacy of his own mind, Jacob can admit that vampires are graceful. Carlisle settles himself in a large chair, which looks like it is made for two people not one, and Esme leaves her perch beside Jacob to join him. One of her hands winds into his hair, carding through from front to back, whilst the other is gripped tightly in his hand. He raises her hand to his lips and presses a kiss into her flesh and Jacob is entranced by the archaic gesture. It's like something out of an old black and white movie. The type his dad sometimes watches on a Sunday afternoon, when there isn't a game on, and reminisces about his own childhood.

That type of film has always held a special kind of magic for Jacob. One of the few memories he has of his mother involves a black and white movie. He is tucked in a blanket on the sofa, curled in his mother's arms and a movie is on the television. He isn't sure what was going on, but he is sure that it happened. He can still smell his mother's perfume.

Bella is not as rapt by the gesture, her fingers are drumming an impatient tattoo on her knee and her dark eyes are eagle sharp and fixed unwaveringly on Carlisle. All the family's attention is fixed on the oldest vampire, but Bella's is the most impatient. It is almost hostile in its intensity.

"Carlisle –"

He kisses Esme's hand again, obviously buying time and a strong wave of calm washes over all of them. Jasper is like the ocean, sending out wave after wave of calm, some strong enough to crash against them and some no more than ripples but they are there, lapping against each of them. Bella sags slightly, tilting into Jacob's side but her eyes do not leave Carlisle.

After long moments of silence and soothing calm, Carlisle finally gathers his thoughts, "Edward was bitten by a werewolf."

Jacob stiffens in his seat. Technically, his pack are shape-shifters, skin-walkers, not werewolves but everyone refers to them as such. He hopes, with every fibre of his being, that Carlisle is not using the misnomer. But from the looks he is getting and the hostility in the air, he has a horrible feeling that he is not. Bella is glaring at him, as is Rosalie.

"One of the pack –" Bella starts and Jacob hates her, utterly hates her, for even thinking such a thing of his brothers. None of them would violate the treaty.

"It wasn't us!" Jacob exclaims, unable to stop himself. Either the words have to burst from his mouth or he will burst from his skin. It wasn't them, he knows that. There is not even the glimmer of doubt in his mind; this was not of his pack's doing. For one thing, if they'd attacked Edward, he wouldn't have walked away.

"There was no scent of wolf in the clearing," Jasper affirms, his southern twang the most comforting sound in the world.

"Peace Jacob, Jasper, I know it was not one of the pack."

"But you said it was werewolf," Bella states, clearly confused. "You said Edward was bitten by a werewolf."

Carlisle blinks slowly and shakes his head. "Forgive me," he beseeches, holding a peaceable palm out to Jacob, "I misspoke. I did not mean to infer that I was alluding to the pack. I was not."

Bella doesn't apologise for doubting Jacob's pack and he shifts away from her side, pressing himself into the corner of the sofa. All he wants to do now is find out what happened and go home. Bella can do whatever the hell she likes. He just wants to go home.

"Then what?" Bella snaps, "Tell me what happened to Edward."

The doctor is obviously trying to and Alice reaches out to snag Bella's hand, holding it tight in her own. She looks as worried as Bella, but there is an air of calm around her and Jacob wonders whether it is Jasper's doing or something about being able to see the future. It would certainly lead to an air of unflappability. She squeezes Bella's hand and whispers, "Let Carlisle talk, Bella. Let him talk."

Carlisle nods his thanks and his grip on Esme's hand tightens. "Edward was bitten by a werewolf. Jacob's pack mates are wolves but I believe the correct term would be shape-shifters not werewolves?" His question is directed at Jacob, who affirms it with a curt nod, refusing to make eye contact. "Werewolves are something completely different. They require the full moon to transform, whilst Jacob and his kind can do so at will."

"They're also insane." Jasper injects softly. His eyes are distant and haunted and Jacob wonders for the first time just how old he is. He knows Carlisle is the oldest of them all, but perhaps Jasper is just as old. He certainly seems so. He seems older than Edward for all his anachronistic mannerisms. "But I thought they had been eradicated?"

"Obviously not. Caius must have missed at least one in his purge." Carlisle sighs and buries his head in his hands. "He could have missed thousands."

"No, we would have seen something before now. Werewolves are not subtle," Jasper notes.

The rest of the family looks as confused as Jacob feels. He has never heard anything beyond Hollywood tales of werewolves so he cannot really understand the dark look that has settled on Jasper's brow. Nor the anguish in Carlisle's eyes. As far as he knows, vampires are indestructible and werewolves menace villages in France and can only be killed with silver bullets.

"Ok," Bella interrupts, standing suddenly and drawing everyone's attention from Carlisle. "I get it – werewolves are real! Just like every other horror story monster. But is Edward ok? I mean, he just got bitten right? Right?"

Carlisle shakes his head. "I am so sorry."

"What?" Bella's hand grips her throat and what little colour she had drains from her face. "Carlisle what is going on?"

It is not Carlisle who answers. He tries, he opens his mouth to speak, but he seems to choke on the words. It is Jasper's soft voice that washes over them. "Edward is dying, Bella. Werewolves are deadly to our kind. One bite will turn a human into a werewolf or kill a vampire."

"Bullshit!" Emmett explodes, standing so suddenly that Jacob does not even see him move. "That is utter bullshit!"

"Emmett," Esme scolds, but is a reflex reaction; there is no heat in her words, no reprimand in her eyes. She is staring at her fingers entwined in the wool of her husband's sweater and looking a little lost.

"But it is! There is no way a little dog," he spat the word venomously, "could take Edward out with one bite. No fucking way."

"It's not true is it? Jazz?" Alice is looking at her husband, who merely wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. Her breath hitches and Jacob knows that if she wasn't a vampire she would be crying right about now. Hell, he is on the verge himself and he takes back everything he has ever thought about this family. They do have emotions; he can see it etched into every single face. From Carlisle's hopelessness to Alice's grief and Emmett's incredulity, it is all laid out for him to see. He hates that they are showing it to him. He hates them for it because now, now he might not be able to do his job. He won't be able to kill a vampire without wondering if it has loved ones or a family. Wondering who they leave behind.

And he won't ever be able to look at Edward or think of him with hostility without seeing how much his family love him.

There is a crash and Jacob turns to see Rosalie, her arm partway through the plaster wall. Her face is perfectly blank, her eyes fixed on where her arm has disappeared into the wall. Emmett rushes to her side, cradling her arm in his big hands. "Babe?"

"I'm fine. Let go."

Emmett does, dropping her arm as if it had burned him. Jacob doesn't blame him, the seething rage in Rosalie's voice makes him want to tuck his tail between his legs and flee. There is something terrific about her anger. She is standing there, her hand in a wall, looking like she has just stepped out of a fashion magazine, her hair and make-up perfect and all Jacob can see is fury. Rosalie would have been worshipped as a goddess if she had lived millennia ago. She's merely lusted over now.

There is a crunch and Rosalie retracts her arm, a fist-sized hole left in the wall and plaster dust staining her manicured nails.

"Do you feel any better?" Esme enquires, her voice flat.

"No." Rosalie sinks back down to the sofa, the fight draining out of her like air from a balloon.

"No." All eyes turn to Bella who is shaking her head like a wounded animal. There are tears coursing down her face and they look wrong. Her eyes are not red and the tears are fat and slow; she looks like a doll, the ones kids have that can cry. She doesn't look human at all.

Jacob wants to comfort her, really he does, but he can't. He thinks that really he should be jumping up and down and doing anything to ingratiate himself with her because Edward is going to be out of the picture. For good. Gone, vanished, vanquished. Finally. But he isn't. He feels hollow and slightly terrified because if this thing can kill a vampire with one bite he dreads to think what it could do to him. And he knows that is selfish of him but he can't help it. He's scared and a little sad, sad for all these people around him who seem so very broken at the news. Death always hurts the ones left behind the worst. He pulls his knees to his chest, not caring about his boots on the clean white fabric, and hugs them, trying to crush the ache in his chest; the ache that is threatening to swallow him whole.

Bella's breathing is becoming ragged and rushed and Alice is reaching out comforting arms to her, wrapping Bella and her grief up. Jasper has not relinquished his own hold on Alice and there is a steady stream of gloomy calm pulsing in the air. Jacob can smell the sweet stench of grief in the air, like the heavy smell of rain before a thunderstorm. It is gathering and threatening to break at any moment.

Bella starts to scream, "No. No. No!" It is the only word she seems to know. The denial races through her like an electric current. She jerks, pulling from Alice with a force the little vampire was not expecting and rushes across the living room, tripping over her feet in her haste, falling to the floor at the foot of Carlisle's chair. "You have to do something," she begs, curling her fingers into the material of his trousers. Tugging at them like a child demanding attention.

He lifts his head to look at the broken girl at his feet. "There is nothing I can do."

Obviously unthinking, Bella bunches her fist and slams it down on Carlisle's thigh. Had he been human it would have hurt but he is not and Bella is the only injured party. Alice murmurs and moves to comfort her grief stricken friend, but Bella rejects her, shaking her off roughly. "You have to do something!"

"There is nothing," he repeats. He is on autopilot now, functioning purely as a doctor. The father in him seems to have died the moment Jasper confirmed that Edward was dying. "Nothing. I can sedate him, make him comfortable –"

"I don't care if he's comfortable," Bella hisses, her face twisted and ugly. "It doesn't matter if he's comfortable if he's going to die. What are you doing down here? You should be with him. I don't understand what you are doing here. Why are you here? You should be trying to help him. You can't just give up on him. Don't you even care?"

Her vicious words cut into everyone; her grief coming out as fury and spite, heedless of everyone else's pain. Jacob tries to stop her, tries reaching for her, but he does not get to her in time. Esme is gripping Bella's upper arms, shaking her slightly. "That is enough Bella. Enough."

Bella struggles in her grasp, but Esme does not let her go. "It's not. He should be doing _something_," she insists.

Carlisle hangs his head, as though he is ashamed – although Jacob has no idea why he should feel that way. He has done nothing wrong. He has probably done more than anyone else would think to do. Apparently, Esme feels the same.

"You know Carlisle better than that Bella. If he says there is nothing to be done then," she swallows, visibly controlling herself. "Then there is nothing we can do." There is a small smile on her face, a brave watery thing and for the first time in his life, Jacob wants to comfort a vampire. Esme is a precious thing. All mothers are.

"But there has to be something!" Bella is stubborn at the best of times, but she is unwilling to let this go. Jacob cannot blame her really, but he does not think that it is fair for her to assume that she is the only one affected. Carlisle is obviously hurting, and Jacob cannot believe that the doctor who healed his broken body would give up so easily if there were an answer to be found. It is incongruous with what he has seen so far of the vampire.

"There is not. Vampires have searched for centuries for a cure for a werewolf bite trying everything from blood to hemlock and silver. Believe me Bella, there is nothing that Carlisle can do." Jasper's confidence in his words is as final as a funeral knell.

"But -"

Jasper moves. One moment he is on the sofa next to Alice, the next he is by Esme's side. "You are not the only one hurting. You are not the only one who doesn't want this to be true. Believe me Bella, everyone in this room – even Jacob – wishes that this wasn't the case. But it is."

Jacob is startled to hear of his own emotions from someone else but he cannot protest. He does feel bad and he does wish that this was not happening but it is, and he cannot change that. He can feel eyes on him, incredulous gazes burning into his skin, but he ignores them. He cannot help what he feels and he will not apologise for it. He does not like Edward, he never has. In fact, it would be more accurate to state that Jacob hates Edward, loathes him, completely and utterly detests him; but, despite all of that, he is surprised to find that he really does not want the vampire dead.

Well, anymore dead than he already is.

He wanted Bella to choose him, not have him because there is no other choice. He wanted her to make the active decision that he was better than Edward. Edward dying does not make him the winner; it makes him the eternal loser. Now, Edward will be the martyr and Jacob the replacement, because he knows Bella. She is unable to be alone, she needs someone else and he has already established himself as the heir apparent. He's surprised to find that he'd rather Edward live than be the second choice and he isn't sure if that is generous or horrifically selfish of him.

Alice lifts herself from the sofa and glides across to Bella. Her cheerful clothing and artfully mussed hair look garishly optimistic compared to the solemn expression on her face. She wraps herself around Bella, perching her pointed chin on Bella's shoulder. "Perhaps we should go sit with him?"

"Yes," Esme nods. Her relief is palpable. She pats Bella gently on the arm, rubbing it slightly. "Why don't you and Alice go and sit with him, dear? Hmm?" Nodding decisively she turns to the rest of the family, including them in the conversation, "We'll take it in shifts. Give everyone a chance."

Esme is trying so very hard to remain composed and optimistic and the "to say goodbye" is left unsaid, but they all hear it. Even Jacob, though he knows he won't be saying goodbye. Even if they offer him the chance to, it will feel too much like gloating for him to be comfortable. And he is quite sure that Edward would not want him there. The best thing he can do, for himself and Edward, is leave and not come back. Not even if Bella begs him too.

Bella nods mutely and Alice unwinds her arms and gently takes her hand, leading her from the room. Jacob hears them climb the stairs and waits until a door shuts somewhere above his head before turning back to the rest of the family.

* * *

A/N: I am not really happy with this chapter but, after a month of going back and forth over it, I had to post it before it drove me mad! Let me know what you think?


	3. There is Venom and then there is Venom

**A/N: **I am very sorry that it has been so long since my last update. I am blaming, in no particular order, writer's block, a new job, the search for another new job, Christmas and the flu. But I have not abandoned this fic, hence the update. I am sorry that this chapter is somewhat exposition heavy but it is necessary, please bear with me. On another note, just to clarify, I am using the physicality of the actors in the films and not the books for this story. I just don't like the way SM has the pack as such hulking great giants. Other than that... Enjoy!

* * *

It is odd, but without Bella in the room Jacob suddenly feels vulnerable. It has nothing to do with his feelings for her. She does not make him feel manly and strong like the songs on the radio suggest she should, it is simply that he knows what the Cullens' feel for her. They might be monsters, but the insubstantial girl that has just fled the room is a better barrier between them and him than a lead-lined concrete wall. But she is gone, and he is distinctly uncomfortable. He should not be here, the fact is very apparent now. It was apparent before, but the focus was on Bella then. Now, all their eyes are fixed on him and Jacob does not like it.

"Well," Jacob says, shifting from foot to foot, "I'm gonna head." He jerks his head towards the door and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He scuffs his foot on the floor, like a child being chastised and forces his father's words from his throat. "Um, well, I mean – if you need anything...you can call the pack or well, me. If you need anything." He trails off.

It is highly embarrassing. He's never been tongue-tied before, but telling the vampires that they can call upon him should they need anything makes his tongue thick and the words stick in his throat. He isn't sure what 'anything' involves, but it is a standard practice that everyone falls back upon when someone has family issues. You offer to be there if they need it and pray that they really don't. Or, at least, that is what Jacob decides he is going to do.

They are still staring at him, though he thinks that it is incredulity in their eyes rather than hunger, or at least he hopes so. He can feel their golden eyes trained on his back as he moves towards the door, it makes the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. His hands curl into fists, the material of his jeans tight around them, and his teeth clench. It is all he can do not to phase right there. He feels cornered and threatened and that is never comfortable. Jacob does not care what people say about love being the most powerful emotion around, anger and fear are the most primal. Anger and fear are the two emotions that are certain to cause a shifter to phase, because they are the most intense. They are the kill or be killed emotions. They are the ones that save your life. As far as Jacob's experience goes, love is just another way of tying you to someone. It's like a leash.

Fear is definitely ruling him now. His heart is racing and he dare not breathe, just in case they really aren't paying him any attention and he manages to catch it.

He has a hand curled around the door handle, the metal cool in his hot palm and can smell the fresh forest beyond, before his escape is prevented.

"I am afraid, Jacob, that I cannot let you leave." As with everything he does, Carlisle speaks softly but all Jacob hears is a threat.

Startled, Jacob turns back to face the vampires. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I cannot allow you to leave. Not now."

Jacob snarls and the urge to shift almost overtakes him. His shoulders bunch upwards and his blood thunders in his ears and, if their eyes are anything to go by, they can hear the surge of blood below his skin. He is incandescent with fury and incredulity and his tattered control snaps like a brittle twig. "Why not?" he demands, the vitriol in his voice is almost tangible. "What, now I've seen the inner sanctum I can't be allowed out? You gonna trap me in the basement or just kill me here?"

He cannot believe the nerve of the vampire. It isn't as though he actually wanted to come, Bella dragged him here. It's not as if he's even learned anything he didn't already know. The pack has always known where the Cullen's lived; their scent was like a beacon continually screaming at them. He's trembling, the muscles in his thighs and arms contracting and relaxing so fast that he barely feels it, tensing for the fight that is to come. If he can just get outside he knows that he can outrun them. He's one of the fastest in his pack – he just has to get out of the door.

Carlisle laughs, then at seeing Jacob's panic stops himself quickly. His hands reach out to Jacob but Jacob shies away, backing up until the very door handle he had been gripping seconds ago is digging into the flesh of his back.

"That is not what I meant Jacob. Please," he beckons Jacob closer, "please don't be scared. Forgive me; that came out incorrectly."

Jacob stays tensed by the door. It does not matter how soothing Carlisle tries to be, he is still the enemy. Still a threat. "I'm not scared," he says defiantly.

Rosalie snorts and Esme shushes her quickly. Her eyes are full of worry, mostly for Edward, Jacob imagines, but he can see glimmers of it aimed at him. Emmett is looking amused, though his eyes are tight with grief and Jasper just looks pained. Carlisle looks at his family and makes a hesitant step towards Jacob, and it takes everything Jacob has not to shrink away from him.

"Jacob, I apologise. I promise that we mean you no harm. While you are under this roof no-one," he says, gesturing to his family "will harm you. You have my word."

Jacob fights the urge to roll his eyes and hates that the vampire's words provide enough comfort that he relaxes slightly. He sighs, "Why can't I leave?"

Carlisle doesn't speak immediately; he looks as though he is weighing his words carefully before speaking. Jacob only recognises the expression because it is the same one his father used before he shifted for the first time, back when Billy was prohibited from telling his son the truth of why Sam dropped by so often and why Embry was no longer hanging out with him and Quil, shunning them in favour of the older boys. Apparently, it is an expression which is not confined to age or species, and Jacob hates it as much on Carlisle as he did on his father.

"Just tell me," he says, through clenched teeth. His patience is in shreds, just like his clothing after a spontaneous shift, and he is not sure that he can take any more of it. He does not want to play games; he just wants to go home.

Carlisle looks weary, but nods in acceptance of Jacob's demands. "Did Bella mention that I had forbidden the family to leave the house?"

Jacob nods slowly. "She said no one could come and get her, yeah."

"She lied, Jacob. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she misquoted us." He pauses and glances at the door. Bella and Alice have disappeared, and if Jacob focuses hard enough, he can hear Bella moving slightly upstairs. He knows it is Bella by the simple fact that vampires do not move if they do not have to. "I emphatically told Alice that Bella was to remain at home. No one was to leave the house and Bella was to remain indoors as well."

"Alice relayed the message Carlisle," Esme interjects softly. The need to protect her daughter, adopted though Alice is, colours every word and her hand on Carlisle's arm appears just a tad too tight to be comforting.

Laying his hand over his wife's, Carlisle smiles softly at her. "I heard her tell Bella too." He turns back to Jacob. "Alice told Bella that no one was allowed to come to get her and that she was to stay at home. I had intended for Alice to collect her in the morning, when it was light out."

Jacob shakes his head. "I don't – that doesn't explain why I have to stay."

For a moment Carlisle regards him, before turning and sharing a speaking look with Jasper. He sighs wearily and Jacob is forcefully reminded of his high-school English teacher. "All of you please sit. Jacob is not the only one who needs to hear this."

No one, bar Jacob and Carlisle, has moved since the girls left to visit Edward, and Carlisle motions for them all to return to their seats before taking a spot on the sofa beside Jasper. Esme curls herself in Carlisle's chair, her hands tucked into the sleeves of the large woollen cardigan she has wrapped around her slender frame. Rosalie takes a seat on Emmett's knee, his arms around her waist, as regal as any queen. Only Jacob remains standing, not quite comfortable enough to sit, but his anxiety has eased now that the vampires are no longer standing. The vibration under his skin has slowed to more of a crawl, but he is still decidedly uncomfortable. Carlisle seems to be waiting for Jacob to sit, but Jacob has no intention of doing so and so he just sighs before he starts speaking.

"Werewolves are the ultimate perversion of man-kind. They are human but the full moon forces them into an excruciating transformation that is both mental and physical. I am sure, of all of us, Jacob is the only one capable of commenting on the pain of such a metamorphosis, not to mention the difficulties of balancing a lupine and human mind. However, I imagine that for Jacob and his pack, every transformation is easier than the last."

Carlisle's assumptions are accurate. It is unnerving to realise just how much of their behaviour the doctor has either intuited or learned. But, that is a slow trickle of wariness compared to the ice-bath when he realises what this man must be going through.

"However, shape-shifters are human. Even when they are in wolf form, underneath they are still human. They still think and feel as a human would, the wolf's senses are secondary – important, yes, but they never quite manage to turn a shape-shifter into a real wolf. But werewolves are both man and beast, all the time. Each is continually struggling to overpower the other and eventually, both man and beast lose their minds." Carlisle is, somehow, managing to include all of them in his lecture but his eyes fixed on the floor. "We often think, perhaps rather arrogantly, that a vampire is the ultimate killing machine. We most certainly are apex predators. We are fast, we are strong and we have a very specific prey that has no real defence against us. Ultimately, the death of our prey is entirely within our hands. But, even the oldest amongst us is still rational. A vampire may kill a human for their blood, but I doubt that there is a single vampire in existence that would consider slaughtering an entire village in this day and age."

He raises his hand, and Jacob realises that a comment was forming on Esme's lips but she bit it back at Carlisle's imperious gesture. "In the past, murdering a village would have been easy. It would be at least a day before the massacre would be uncovered and superstition was so rampant that it would easily be explained away as murderous vagrants or an act of God. In today's society though, to kill more than one person at a time would arouse suspicion. In this sense, vampires are rational. We take only what we need. Only the Volturi partakes in gluttony and even then, it is done with the utmost discretion."

Jacob feels sick. What Carlisle is saying is horrific. They might be able to accept it as purely academic reasoning, but Jacob knows that it is not. The stories of his tribe are full of tales of the Cold Ones trying to destroy the village. It is why he exists after all, to stop it happening.

"That's interesting," he manages to say around the bile in his throat, "but I don't understand."

Looking around he realises that he is not alone. Esme's brow is furrowed in concentration. Rosalie no longer looks bored which suggests to Jacob that she is listening intently to what is being said, and thinking about it; which, makes Jacob snort in his head. He is honestly surprised that there is any room in there for thoughts with all the peroxide that must have leeched through her skull over the years. Emmett has his face buried in Rosalie's shoulder, as if he is trying to hide from Carlisle's words. Jacob understands the sentiment.

It is only Jasper who looks as though he understands what it is that Carlisle is working his way towards.

"Werewolves are not like vampires Jacob. They do not think of the consequences of their actions. If they want to slaughter a village, nothing – and I mean nothing – can stop them." He looks at his family. In his eyes there is a burning determination that is dulled around the edges by fear. "Werewolves are strong – just like us. They are fast – just like us. They are lethal – just like us. But, they are insane; horribly and irredeemably insane. Imagine a killing machine without a shred of conscience or rationality. One that does not care about the damage it wreaks or the devastation it causes. A werewolf is something that kills just because it can. It does not need to, in fact, I have never heard of a werewolf actually eating a human. They merely kill them. They kill anything that crosses their path."

Jacob swallows heavily. In all honesty, he's been thinking that a werewolf was similar to his own pack. The only difference he could truly see was that they phased with the moon. He's actually been feeling sorry for them, seeing them as having less freedom because they could not choose how and when to shift. He's pitied them. Now he is beginning to fear them.

Carlisle has not done talking though. "On top of that, their bite is fatal. I have only met one vampire to have ever survived a werewolf and that was only because he threw other vampires it its path."

"Caius," Esme says, and Jacob realises that she is naming the vampire who had survived. Something in her tone tells Jacob that Caius is not someone he wants to meet.

"Indeed."

"He then began his purge," Jasper states softly. "My maker told me about it, she made it sound like some doomed quest. According to Maria," and Jacob has to assume she was the Maker in question, "over two hundred vampires set out across Europe, travelling eastwards from London to Moscow, determined to drive the werewolves out of hiding and slaughter them. Maria said that it was like a crusade, although she was not there. They were successful, until they reached Romania." Jasper laughs, a sardonic sound that curls through the room like acrid smoke and when he speaks again his voice is bitter. "Everyone thinks that Romania is the heartland of the vampires but really, it belongs to wolves. It's why the Romanian Coven was so easily usurped and the Volturi settled elsewhere. Caius' army got no further than the foothills before they were attacked, though. Only Caius and a few others returned."

Carlisle nods, picking up swiftly when Jasper falls silent. "Maria had the story right. I was there when Caius returned to Volterra; he and only six other vampires. Among them was Felix, it was how he came to join the Guard. I had never seen Caius afraid, but he was when he returned then and I could not help but wonder, what in God's name could make a vampire as cruel as Caius afraid."

Jacob cannot help but feel a little lost. The Cullens are all nodding, which is somewhat expected. Obviously they know who Carlisle was talking about, but Jacob does not. He has heard Bella mention the name, but she had told him little of what had happened in Italy and, even though he had heard the name Caius, he has no idea of who the vampire really is. Bella has only really talked about Aro, the one who had said she must die. Still, that is not the over-riding thought in his head.

He coughs lightly, drawing Carlisle's attention. "How many werewolves were there?" Because, really, he needs to know what exactly they are dealing with.

"Caius never truly said. But, if Aro's reaction was anything to go by, I would say not very many. Not anywhere near the two hundred Caius had with him."

And suddenly, there is a weight in the room, the inescapable spectre of what it was that was somewhere out in the woods. What is hunting them. Jacob staggers forward, dropping heavily into the remaining vacant seat. He cannot believe, after what he has seen, than anything short of two hundred werewolves would be able to successfully take on a small army of vampires. His experience with the Newborns has left a lasting impression on the young shifter, and has robbed him of his cocky attitude towards vampires. It is a begrudging appreciation of their strength and speed, a wary respect, and he is very much like an animal – once bitten, twice shy. The idea of a small number of werewolves destroying so many vampires rattles around his brain, deafening in the silence that Carlisle's comment has left. The silence does not last long, and is broken abruptly by a snort from Emmett.

"So they're strong and fast – good for them. I still say its bull that Edward is going to die." Rosalie is still sitting on his knee, but Emmett is bunching his muscles and bearing his teeth in an arrogant show of dominance.

Jacob hates to admit that the vampire is right. Carlisle may have explained why werewolves should be feared and, if possible, avoided but he was not gotten around to why they were so deadly to vampires. Not that Jacob really cares, but it would be nice to be able to tell the Pack everything he can. Any information Carlisle can offer up will give them a chance to defend themselves. It may be selfish of him, especially when everyone around him is suffering so terribly, but Jacob has to put his tribe first. He has spent far too long putting Bella first; but she has chosen her life now and he cannot keep putting her ahead of his family

"Emmett, please," Esme begs softly, her voice as gentle as honey. "Let Carlisle speak, in his own time."

Though Esme is naturally gentle, Jacob can see the core of steel within her as she defends her Mate. He wonders what will happen if Emmett decides to push things, press Carlisle for more information or challenge his opinion, because while Carlisle is obviously in no state to protect himself, Esme most certainly is prepared to do so. Emmett however subsides, though that could be due to Rosalie digging her nails into his forearms. Jasper gently touches Carlisle on the arm and a ripple of calm travels around the room, though it feels sluggish, almost as though Jasper cannot quite bring himself to help manage the tensions in the room.

"Like a vampire, a werewolf has a venomous bite and like a vampire, should a werewolf bite a human the human will turn. Providing they survive, of course." Jacob is relieved that Carlisle sounds grieved even at the notion of a human being attacked by either species. "This is where the greatest difference between your species lie," he says to Jacob, "Your kind does not have a venomous bite. You rely on strength and speed but a werewolf needs only one bite to incapacitate its prey."

Jacob desperately wants to point out the difference really lies between the fact that never, in the history of the Quileute Wolves, has a wolf attacked a person but he keeps his mouth shut, reminding himself that Carlisle is in the process of losing his son and he cannot truly know the history of the Quileute – not even Jacob does.

"But, whilst a vampire's bite is only venomous to humans, a werewolf's bite can affect even vampires. To the best of my knowledge, lycanthropy is a virulent virus injected into the bloodstream by a bite. There is no cure and by the end of the Full Moon, and for werewolves this includes the two days either side, the infection has forced the human's body into a permanent metamorphosis. Vampirism can be seen in similar terms but I do believe the venom of a vampire's bite to be weaker than that of a werewolf's. We can, after all, draw the venom back out of a wound. And, more importantly, our venom relies on a heartbeat to distribute it throughout a body. A vampire cannot turn a dead person. The venom in a werewolf's bite on the other hand is a living thing, it can move through the bloodstream without aid."

"Which means that it can spread through a vampire's system," Jacob needlessly confirms.

Carlisle nods sombrely, "Indeed. And when the venom from a werewolf bite meets the venom already in our system, the two wage war on one another. It is like combining an acid and a base, within the body of the vampire there is a violent reaction as the venoms attack one another and eventually cancel one another out. However, the vampire is killed because ultimately, the venom sustaining their 'life' is neutralised."

Jacob had never been too keen on chemistry; but like most boys his age, he had enjoyed watching the affects of combining baking soda and vinegar and watching the mixture bubble violently. He had much preferred seeing the affect water had on sodium but he understood the symbolism. And so did everyone else in the room, if their blanched expressions are anything to go by. Edward is heading towards a very painful and violent death, even though he will never leave the bed Carlisle has probably placed him in.

There is really nothing more to say except, "Why can't I leave? I am sure that none of you want me here and if I am honest," which is something Jacob always tries to be, "I would rather not be here. Edward would not want me here."

It is a compelling argument, and one Jacob thinks will win – because if Edward could speak right now, he is sure that he would demand that Jacob leave the house. Rosalie seems to agree, as she is nodding along with him and even Esme seems contemplative. But Carlisle has a bland, yet stubborn, look upon his face and Jacob has the sinking feeling that the oldest vampire is not going to capitulate easily.

"Let the mutt go, the sooner he leaves the sooner we get the smell out of the house." Rosalie's words might be vicious, but her tone shows that she is merely putting her thoughts into words, and very little effort has gone into those thoughts. She does not truly care if he is there or not. Edward is most probably the first and foremost thing in her mind, and even insulting Jacob would not provide enough of a distraction. She is merely objecting to his presence because she has to. She is Rosalie; everyone expects her to be a bitch.

Esme, ever the peacekeeper, began to speak, but slowly, as if she was carefully weighing every word. "Perhaps, Carlisle, it is best if Jacob goes. I do not want anyone uncomfortable. Tonight is going to be..." she trails off, as if she cannot quite think of words powerful enough to describe just how awful the coming night is going to be.

Carlisle shakes his head. "I cannot let Jacob leave knowing that there is a werewolf out there. Firstly, it would be highly irresponsible of me to put you in such danger and secondly, what would your pack do should something happened to you?" He pauses, a determined look entering his golden eyes. "I am sorry Jacob, but, until the sun rises, you are staying here."


End file.
